


yours to keep

by oldpotatoe



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Dementia, M/M, brown-eyed sokka because i said so, listen this started from a not-prompt and ended with me cry-typing it into a word doc at 1am, no beta we die like jet, old zukka, yeah its THAT fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28092450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldpotatoe/pseuds/oldpotatoe
Summary: [“Morning, sweetheart.”Sokka’s gaze stays clouded, like he hasn’t even heard. Zuko sighs, gently running his hand along Sokka’s temple.So, it’s going to be one of those days, then.]or: "forever" is a pretty word. it was never theirs to keep
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 283





	yours to keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bleekay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleekay/gifts).



> "but potatoe you already have a zukka amnesia fic" yeah i know. blame [bleekay](https://oldpotatoe.tumblr.com/post/637335779626156032/thanks-to-you-and-your-fic-and-a-lot-of-pain-and)
> 
> title from "yours to keep" by jordan mackampa

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Sokka’s gaze stays clouded, like he hasn’t even heard. Zuko sighs, gently running his hand along Sokka’s temple.

So, it’s going to be one of those days, then.

* * *

Over the last few years, their morning routine has been chiselled down to three simple parts: bathroom, dressing, breakfast.

Routine is mundane, and mundane should blend all its edges together into one blur, but still Zuko finds himself treasuring the way Sokka’s hair feels in his hands, wet and soft, the white of the lather disappearing into the white of his husband’s hair. Still Zuko finds himself smiling softly when, halfway through a fight between Sokka’s arm and the sleeve of his well-worn sweater, Sokka falls against Zuko’s neck and snuffles like a disgruntled cat. Still Zuko finds himself memorising the little humming sound Sokka always makes around his first mouthful of cereal, even if Zuko’s the one holding the spoon to his mouth now.

All these moments still feel hard-won, inches clawed back from the tug of war Zuko plays with fate every day. He knows he’s losing—knew it the second they’d sat in the doctor’s office, Sokka’s hand clenched tight in his as they’d stared down at the black-and-white report sentencing them, in such clinical terms, to the beginning of the end— but still he pulls onto the rope with every shred of determination his own failing body possesses.

(That’s not to say there aren’t times when Zuko doesn’t wish to let go; to stop the chafe that rubs at him raw whenever Sokka looks at him without looking, unseeing in a way that makes Zuko want to lie down and disappear completely, if only to match the way he exists in Sokka’s eyes.

Sometimes, Zuko finds himself wishing for some slack to the rope, if only enough to hang himself with.)

Today’s theme is Quiet Day, it seems. Quiet Days are better than Loud Days, which are filled with belligerent shouting and smashing of trinkets and tears, with cyclical arguments and forgotten memories and Zuko’s fingers itching to reach inside Sokka’s head and tear out whatever it is that’s ripping away the love between them one harsh word at a time.

Quiet Days are composed of shuffling around with one slipper missing, poking and prodding at food with disinterested fingers, and many, many hours spent in bed, staring at the ceiling together. If asked, Zuko could probably point out all forty-three paint chips with his eyes closed.

Quiet Days may be better than Loud Days, but he still really hates this particular shade of beige.

He stares at it now, tracing patterns on Sokka’s palm with one languid finger. It’s strange, he thinks, coming to peace with this.

He’d gotten the call an hour ago, though he’d felt it within himself for a while now. Stage IV, maybe a year if he’s lucky. Zuko had to stop himself from scoffing down the line— luck and him have never gotten along.

Well, that’s not quite right. Zuko turns to the man lying next to him, tracing him with his eyes the way his fingers are doing his hand.

There are the crow’s feet he’s seen deepen over the years one laugh at a time, the lines on his forehead from too much squinting at blueprints and notebooks and occasionally at Zuko when he was being particularly dim. There’s the slant of his eyebrows and his beautifully wide nose and the full lips that Zuko’s lavished years of his life on, yet never quite had his fill of. And there’s his eyes, warm and endlessly deep, the same shade of brown as the earth he’s tripped on when he’d seen Sokka for the first time across the college campus, head thrown back in careless laughter. It wasn’t the ground’s fault for the way Zuko’s entire life had tilted then, his compass shifting to find its true north in the steadiness of Sokka’s gaze.

The same eyes look at him now, sharpening with every passing second. One eyebrow rises slightly.

“Hello, you,” Zuko says, letting his hand drop on Sokka’s.

“Hey.” Sokka’s voice is scratchy from disuse. It’s still the most beautiful thing Zuko’s ever heard. “You’re here.”

“I am.” 

Sokka’s hand tightens around Zuko’s, and something pulls at Zuko’s chest.

_Don’t ask. Don’t do it. Don’t—_

“Do you—” He breaks off, eyes flicking down to their joined hands. He hasn’t asked this in a long time, too afraid of the answer he’ll receive.

But now, he reminds himself, there is little time left for fear and regrets. It’s a small consolation, but still enough to fill him with the resolve he needs to finish his question. “Do you remember who I am, love?”

Sokka says nothing for a long moment. Just turns his head back to face the ceiling. Zuko does the same.

“No,” says Sokka eventually, regretfully.

Zuko swallows around the shards in his throat. _Maybe dying will hurt less_ , he thinks, and can’t tell if the ache in his lungs is from the hurt of being forgotten or the cancer.

“But… I think I knew you, once?” Sokka’s forehead dips into a frown briefly, before it smooths out again. “I know I— forget things. I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright.” Zuko forces a smile on his face. “Don’t worry about it.”

The silence between them is filled with soft breathing and the _pitter-patter_ of raindrops against the windowpanes. Zuko watches the water run down in rivulets against the glass, eyes dry. 

There comes a weak tugging at his hand. “I might not remember your name,” says Sokka, drawing back Zuko’s attention, “but I think I remember something else about you.”

“Oh?”

Zuko glances over, intending to humour him. Finds his breath catching, instead.

Sokka looks at him the same way he’s done hundreds of thousands of times, with soft eyes and the slightly lopsided smile that makes him squint a little. It’s Zuko’s favourite smile of his, linked to memories of ice-skating dates and take-outs after burning dinner and easy bickering in the car, of the sound of his own voice saying _have you eaten yet?_ and _hey take an umbrella it’s raining outside_ and _go to bed idiot it’s late_ and _Sokka, I do, god, yes, of course I do_ , of knowing he’d follow Sokka to the ends of the earth if only to trail helplessly in his wake.

“I remember that you’re someone special to me,” says Sokka quietly. “I remember—”

He pauses, hesitant. Reaches out with the hand not enclosed within Zuko’s to brush back a lock of Zuko’s hair, shaky fingertips lingering against his scar. Zuko’s eyes close against the sudden burn, a familiar stranger. “I remember that I love you.”

It’s not nearly enough. It’s still more than anything Zuko could have dreamed of asking for.

He wishes he could drop this moment in amber, encasing it forever to keep. But forever is temporary, and wishes are for fools and story tales. And Zuko may be many things, but he's not an idiot; theirs was never a happy ending.

But though life drives a hard bargain, he’s learned to settle. For Sokka's sake, there's little he hasn't been willing to do. 

So, he twines their fingers together before bringing them to his lips. Kisses the wrinkled softness of the back of Sokka’s hand, his own ring glinting in the light. 

“Love you too,” he says, breathing his truth into the crevices of Sokka’s skin. And when Sokka’s smile grows surer, brighter, he feels like the sun has made its home in his chest, suffusing him with a glowing warmth. Figures, he thinks; decades of sunrises, yet the curve of Sokka’s lips is still the most radiant thing he’s ever seen.

After all, he was ready to follow Sokka to the ends of the earth after this smile. What’s a few more steps off it?

**Author's Note:**

> no im not sure what's wrong with me either.
> 
> i am also available to be yelled at on [tumblr](https://oldpotatoe.tumblr.com/)


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